Beg
by vargrimar
Summary: Wheatley has rather poor willpower. Originally inspired by a text post by persephonegoestohell on tumblr about Wheatley begging. Human!Wheatley/Chell.


"Aaah, god, please, get on me—I, hah, I really want it. Ah, you. I want you. On me. Please. Just… god, stop teasing. I can't bloody take it."

Chell is in his lap on the bedsheets, naked and flush, and she's driving Wheatley mad. She kisses at his neck with a generous tongue and curious teeth, and he finds that no matter how hard he grips at her hips and guides her down to the tip of his cock, she refuses to relent and seems content to simply grind.

"Come on," he breathes, exhaling through clenched teeth. She's so hot, so close; he can feel how wet she is; he's twitching and trembling and he swears to god he's going to lose it if she doesn't do something soon. "Please, love, I really need this. I'm dying here. Not, ah, not actually dying, just want to make that clear, but it—it really does feel like it."

Her hair sweeps into her eyes as she dips down his throat and nibbles at his collarbone. Her hands have caught his, firmly pressing along her hipbones, and she rocks in slow motions against his cock as if considering his plight. The friction pulls pleasure through him in a torturous way, and he thrusts upward in hopes that she might better receive the picture of what he wants, _god_ , but all the good that comes from it is soft little noises from within her chest and slick fluid slathering his sparking nerves.

"Please," he moans, sloping his hands down to grope at her ass, bringing her fully against his erection and sharpening the ache. "Please, come on, let me. I want you, I really do, you feel so good, just—just get on, _please_ , aaah—"

She lifts herself, and with a searing kiss on his mouth to shut him up, she angles him right against her and _ohgodyes please_ as she sinks down, and then he can't talk anymore, the words are stuck somewhere he can't seem to remember. All that's left is how she's squeezing him and how hot her mouth is and how fire seems to spool inside in rigid bursts and how he cannot get enough of her, he really can't, she's so good, and he crushes her to his ribs in a shuddering paroxysm and kisses her with all of the viciousness he can muster until she shoves him back against the headboard.

With half-lidded eyes, Chell stares at him and frames his cheekbones between her hands, the frames of his glasses against her fingers. There's ice and lust and _you're selfish_ and _I love you anyway_ , and she rolls her hips and drags her lips down his chin and jawline, entertaining a ridiculously slow tempo that he absolutely cannot stand. He sneaks his palms beneath her thighs and attempts to lift her for a more favorable rhythm, but she's having none of it. Instead of following through with his not-so-subtle coaxing, she rises up on the knobs of her knees, and presses closely against his chest, sliding him out and allowing her breasts to rest on either side of his throat.

"You're going to kill me. You are. You know that, right?" The warmth receding from around him is so missed it's almost painful. In retaliation, he sucks on whatever softness he can find, pulling her skin gently between his teeth before applying what he thinks is a good pressure. There is a quiet hum in reply; she seems to approve. "I mean that," he murmurs. "I really do. You're just—you're driving me mad here. I'm serious. Not joking. Do you have any idea just how—how much I'm suffering right now? Because it's a lot. I'm suffering a _lot_. And you're the cause. I hope you're satisfied."

To punctuate his stated suffering, Chell drags her hips downward. He bites at his lower lip, and she pins his cock against his belly and simply settles there, letting wetness and heat soak him inch by inch. Her hands work magic on his shoulders; her thumbs circle by his collarbone while her fingers inch toward his trapezius plane, leaving residual shocks of warmth in their wake. When her tongue traces damp patterns along the shell of his ear, he finds himself breathless and grinding against her as pleasure punches through his nerves.

"Please," says Wheatley, rather desperate now, "come on now, I—I really want you. Don't know how much you want me to say it. Can't you just—just, you know, come up a little, just a bit? Not like it's hard or—well, no, _I'm_ hard, but you knew that, sort of, hah, difficult to miss—come on, you know what I mean, just get on me, please, I really—"

Chell indulges him. Dextrous fingers and a smirk, she brings him against her and engulfs him in a sudden rush. Everything in his brain sputters to a halt as the sensations of hot and wet and tight and _oh_ jam through. A sharp breath pulling through his lungs, he scoops her up and splays her across the sheets, his lifelines mapping the muscles that shape her back. She giggles, something soft and quiet, and he can't help but grin into the curves of her skin because it's for him, only him, and no one else.

When he's able to give a proper thrust, her giggles meld into breathy moans. Her legs hook around his hips, pressing him closer. He can't tell if she's doing it on purpose or whether it's mere reaction, but she clenches so tightly with each withdrawal that he thinks he just might be seeing stars. Thrill punctures through him and twists; it knits under his skin and pools in a consuming heat, and he finds it difficult to continue such a steady pace.

The drumming of her fingers on his shoulders let him know it's all right. _Go ahead_ , she says, _but you'd better see to me after._

"Oh, I will," he breathes against her mouth. "Don't you worry."

Chell proceeds to meet his hips as he rocks into her. It's quick and frenzied and carnal, and as everything inside of him starts to sharpen, he discovers himself whispering into her shoulder, her neck, her mouth; things like _I want you_ and _you're so good_ and _you're bloody gorgeous_ and _god you're amazing_ and _you make me feel too good_ ; a continuous stream of thoughts and endless mumbling because he can't keep his head on straight. Everything's clouded and the (perhaps nonexistent) filter between his brain and his mouth has been dissolved. All that's left is her, her body, how incredible she feels, the tiny things she's doing to his collarbone, and the words he keeps breathing into her like his life depends on it.

When he finally comes, it's sudden and wracking and enough to make him gasp. Pleasure lances through him in a thick burst, pulling down his vertebrae and between his hips, and he clamps her against him as he pushes as deep as he can. The sensation of filling her coupled with her rhythmic clenching numbs him to everything else; it's so good, impossibly good; just being close and here and entwined with her is too much. Shutting his eyes, he revels in the apex of his release and the series of pleasant aftershocks, further stimulated by her gentle squeezing. A low moan humming from his chest, he encompasses her in a tight hug and buries his mouth against the softness of her neck.

"Brilliant," he mutters, allowing himself a last few thrusts. "Seriously, you're just—you're amazing. You are."

Chell's fingers trace up and down his back. They're slow, sensual, prickling down his ribs and along his backbone. It's not an agreement, although it very well should be; it's only gentle, loving, pensive.

"Really, though, why do you always make me beg?" He brings his lips to her ear, teeth grazing along just beneath. He feels her shiver under him and he loves the little arcs her back makes as he nips her earlobe. "I mean, I know you like it. Can't deny that. Whole body's a trembly mess by the time we're through. Don't see you complaining at all. Uh, not that you actually… can. Complain. I meant that in—oh, that sounded bad. That's not what I meant. You know that's not it, come on—"

Chell kisses him and grins, and he supposes it's all right.

Even if he does have to beg.


End file.
